


Out of Season

by silverbirch



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:43:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverbirch/pseuds/silverbirch
Summary: Lady Ista, Saint of the Bastard, receives a blessing unsought.Reallyreallyunsought.





	Out of Season

**Author's Note:**

> Contains big, fat **spoilers** for _The Curse of Chalion_ and _Paladin of Souls_. Does **not** contain any spoilers for _The Hallowed Hunt_ because really, honestly, who even cares about _The Hallowed Hunt_.

Ista dy Chalion, Dowager Royina and Sorcerer-Saint of the Bastard, wondered if she would ever come to enjoy the ride into Cardegoss.

The first time, she had been a little girl, breathless with excitement as she road pillion with her father dy Baocia. The second, it was as a bride-to-be, breathless with anticipation, still reeling from the Provincara's blunt words about her future husband and his best-loved chancellor. 

It was a lovely city, and the Zangre a fine and formidable castle, containing as it did, with one or two exceptions, everyone she loved best in all the world. She had shed herself of her old mistakes, atoned for if not forgotten her crimes of love and desperation. She had found her calling. Found love. Found herself, somewhere under layers of old grief and other's expectations.

But she never enjoyed the ride into Cardegoss. It served only to remind her of old folly, and her son had died behind its walls. 

Folly indeed. 

Though, truth be told, she had felt off her feed for days. The breath of a god breathing hard down her neck did not, she had discovered, make her immune to illness. Or annoyance. Or cramps.

Illvin rode to her right, sidling closer an average of seven times an hour to capture her hand and kiss it. Lady Analiss dy Guera rode to her left. Behind them, her troop of twenty-five rode in orderly ranks, in white tabards of the Order of the Bastard, emblazoned by the leopard of Chalion. Learned dy Cabon, a shadow of his former self (if still, on the whole, portly) lead them in a song that was sacred, at least by the standards of his god, and therefore more like a tavern song than a holy hymn. 

"Are you all right?" Illven asked, also for the seventh time that hour. Ista was normally quite easy to irritate; years of madness in the keeping of others had left her short-tempered with the slightest restriction or obstinacy. After three years, she still could bear from him what would be intolerable from others. 

"I'm fine, love," she said, stifling a yawn. In truth, she felt fine, simply tired, and heavy in all her limbs. The summer's campaign in Jokona, her third, had been wearing. Blasphemous Quintarian though she was, she had noticed that villages plagued with elementals for a decade were grateful to see her, white robes or no. She had pulled demons from children, from elders, from horses and goats. Even, one time, from a rather large carp that was the pride of a local lord's fishpond. Nobody had ever accused demons of being  _smart_.

"These spells worry me."

"You watch me wrestle with demons on behalf of a god, face down sorcerers both witting and unwitting," she said, smiling wearily "but I'm tired a few days running, and this puts a line between your brow?"

"There is nothing unearthly you cannot best, bittersweet Ista," he said, quirking his lips "but for all of that, you are only flesh."

"Only?" She replied archly, raising her brow.

"Sweet flesh, but still mortal," he said, capturing her hand again.

"I swear, you two," Liss said companionably. Ista rolled her eyes. As though her handmaiden had any room to talk; when she and Foix were within ten feet of one another, it was enough sugar and syrup to blacken every tooth from here to the Archipelago.

"Hush, Liss," Ista said, faux sternly.

In due time, they arrived at the black fortress. They had rode in on a path strewn with white flowers, with townsfolk wearing white ribbons and calling out for the Bastard's uncanny blessing. The people loved their Dowager Royina, Ista had found to her mild discomfort. Even if she was plain, and middle-aged, and a sorceress, and living _in flagrante delecto_ with an unmarried bastard lord from who-knows-where in the hinterlands. 

Even more than their pity, she found the kindness of strangers to be unnerving. 

 As they passed through the gates, she became aware that Illvin was once more giving her a look of deep concern.

"Don't frown at me so," she chided gently. How she relished gentleness, both in the receiving and the giving. It made such a change from hot anger, or cold apathy "you'll get wrinkles."

"The Dowager Royina, Sorceress-Saint, could never have a shriveled paramour," Illvin said gravely "the notion offends. Still, I would be grateful to see you abed."

"Oh?" She said "business as usual, then."

"Royina!" Liss said, scandalized on behalf of Ista's ostensible dignity here in the Zangre, if not by Ista herself. 

"To  _rest_ , Royina," Illvin said, not smiling by heroic effort "and besides, we'll not be sharing quarters. Your dignity, and all."

"I care nothing for it," she said, plain truth. She'd had none at all, nor privacy to pretend at it, during her years of madness. What did she care for wagging tongues?

She had often struggled, receiving no help from the Bastard, over what constituted a just use of her power. Hexing the churning hells out of a gossipy courtier seemed...inelegant, if not impious. 

They arrived at the stables, and divested themselves of horses and gear. Ista, unsteady on her feet, took Liss' arm.

"I-" Illvin began.

"Don't  _fuss_ , Illvin," Ista growled.

Making their way through the castle, Ista found she could ignore the old ghosts, shrug off the chill in the walls. 

 _How blasé I have become_ , Ista thought to herself, with a secret smile.

They arrived at the throne room; Ista declined a stop at her quarters for rest and a change of clothing. Iselle, the dear girl, didn't stand much on ceremony, and besides...Ista was not sure if she could drag herself from bed, if she made the mistake of lying down in it. 

Iselle, enormously pregnant and visibly bored with it, brightened as the herald called out Ista's name. Bergon, sprawled on the throne next to her's, gave a little wave and a puppy grin. The orange, yellow and brown robes of the Son's Order suited him very well indeed. 

"Mother!" Iselle said, delighted.

"Royina," Bergon said with a nod. 

Ista was a little disconcerted to realize she could see the infant's soul-fire, entangled yet distinct from Iselle's own. And one other thing.

"Your Majesties," Ista said formally "It is good to see you again. Also, it's a boy."

"I - what?" Iselle said, eyes going wide. Next to her, Bergon's grin widened to an almost demented degree.

"It's a boy. Your baby," Ista said, making a completely needless gesture toward's Iselle's late expansion.

"That...mother, that's...don't be uncanny!" Iselle said, torn between being overjoyed and mortified. 

Ista bowed, relishing the murmurs of the courtiers "as your Majesty wishes." 

"We shall dine together," Iselle said "but I believe Our Chancellor wishes to have a word."

Ista nodded assent, hiding her smile. It was good, she thought, to remind the younger generation that their elders could still surprise them.

 

<><><>

 

Later, she would remember this thought, and heartily curse the Bastard until she could swear his laughter rang in the back of her mind, in the chattering of the birds outside her window.

 

<><><>

 

Lupe dy Cazaril, Chancellor of Chalion, was not a particularly prepossessing man, but compelling, nonetheless. If he was not handsome, he was a man of substantial presence. As she always did, she compared him to chancellors she had known. Cazaril reduced the late dy Jironal to a yapping dog, nipping at the heels of giants, and the gravity he gave forth made the even later dy Lutez seem a man of all flash and no substance, a beauteous portrait of a weak man. 

"Royina," he said warmly, standing from his desk to give her the kiss of greeting, which she returned. They were comrades, the two of them. No god-light burned around him this time, but he was, as always, limned faintly in blue. Beloved of the Daughter indeed, She was never far from him. 

"Cazaril," she said, settling heavily into a well-cushioned chair before his desk. He raised his brows a bit at her weary sigh, but forbore to comment on it. Gods, but she liked silence in a man.

"How goes Jokona?" He asked, pouring her a glass of something so dark a purple that light barely penetrated. She took it with a grateful grimace, which turned into a plain one when she realized it was grape juice.

"Juice, Cazaril?" She asked. 

"My lady Betriz, she...prefers that I not drink."

"Surely you do not over-indulge," Ista said. Sainthood made the pettier vices seem...well, petty. 

"No," Cazaril said plainly "but she says it has an...uncomfortable focusing effect, on my poetry."

"I see," Ista said. She had read some of Cazaril's poetry, once. It had struck a little too close to home.

"Truth be told, I have not drunk wine since that night. You, me, and Umegat."

She had met the old Roknari divine before her Sight had returned, and thought him an interesting man. Her last visit to Cardegoss, the court was treated to the story of three saints, well-sotted on wine, complaining of their respective gods in a tone and words suited more towards lowly servants complaining of their spoiled masters. 

"And how is Umegat?"

"In Brajar, on assignment," Cazaril said, brushing his lips with his thumb, just to make it understood from Whom the assignment had been given.

"Please send him my warmest regards." 

"I will. And Jokona?"

She outlined the situation as best she could. The situation had improved immeasurably, but as the years progressed, while the number of escaped demons reduced, the ones that remained were far craftier, thick with malice and accumulated guile. Truth be told, she relished the greater challenge.

"Mm, excellent," Cazaril said, watching her carefully "now, what of this illness, that you forbear to mention?"

"Damn it, dy Guerda," she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Your business is between you and your God, of course," Cazaril said apologetically "but you are Dowager Royina, and my liege lady's mother, and your health is therefor a state matter. I apologize for this intrusion."

"In truth, Cazaril, it is nothing much. I am tired, often, during the day. Sometimes I have difficulty, in the morning, keeping down food or water. It is wet in Jokona during the summer, I may have picked up some mild illness or ague. My bones ache, but then they always ache."

She looked up to see Cazaril giving her the most appalling look. He was  _grinning._

"Stop that, Cazaril. It looks more fetching on Bergon anyway."

"Milady, I feel there is a simpler explanation," he said "your symptoms remind me of ones lately faced by my lady Betriz."

Ista looked up, alarmed "Lady Betriz, sick? Does Iselle know?"

"She is not sick, my lady Royina. She is pregnant."

A pause.

"And you believe this is related to my situation...how?" Ista managed, in an admirably level tone.

"I believe you may be with child, Royina," Cazaril said. 

"I..."

"Let me send a discreet message to the temple. Mother Clara would be delighted to...lend her expertise to this situation."

"Call her, Cazaril," Ista said, her knuckles going white as she clenched her hands on the arms of her chair.

"Of course. Perhaps tomorrow, after breakfast?"

"Call her  _right now_ , Cazaril," Ista said. 

Cazaril opened his lips; to say something, she presumed. He saw the expression on her face, and thought better of it.

 

 <><><>

 

Ista had rather hoped that her days of screaming internally were past her. She was wrong.

"I...what?" Ista said "please, say that again. Slower this time."

"You are with child, Royina."

Mother Clara was a youngish, stoutish woman in the green robes of the Mother's order. She also glowed green like sun-light sea glass, but Ista had other things to think about. The examination had taken remarkably little time, because Clara had the Sight. Ista, of course, could not gaze upon her own soul with her own soul's eyes. 

"I am..."

"With child, yes." Clara's deference was, Ista thought, not wholly genuine. There was amusement lurking somewhere in that face, curse her.

"I...how could this have happened?" Ista said.

"The usual way, I assume," Clara replied.

"I have no idea how this could have happened."

"You cannot honestly expect me to believe that," Clara said.

"Does this amuse you, Divine?" Ista said acidly.

"Truth be told, somewhat," Clara said candidly, looking completely uncowed by Ista's ferocious glare. 

"I am unmarried," Ista said.

"And so?"

"I am three-and-forty," Ista said "surely, that is too old."

"It does not seem to be, my lady."

"Cazaril!" she called sharply. They were in a small antechamber off Cazaril's office; used by a more vain man for a closet, she suspected. Cazaril, predictably, had filled it with books.

"Yes, my lady...?" he called through the closed door.

"Get in here!" She snapped. "Um, please. My lord Chancellor. If it please you."

Cazaril entered, face full of apprehension. Saint, scholar and savior, it seemed her was still wary of the feminine mysteries.

_Smart man._

"I..." Ista began, then fell silent.

Cazaril glanced at Clara, who nodded. 

"I...must speak to...people," Ista said. "Please, Cazaril, grant me a boon. Do not speak of this to Iselle or to Bergon."

"In truth, I can promise nothing," Cazaril said, spreading his gnarled hands "this is a State matter, and I am a servant of the State. The best I can give you, Royina, is that the business of the State has adjourned for the day. Tomorrow is another matter entirely."

"That..." Ista closed her eyes, slowed her breathing "that is...sufficient. I would just rather that people-"  _Illvin_ "hear of this...disastrous occurrence from me, and not from a court crier."

"Disasters are the province of the Bastard," Mother Clara said, unexpectedly "and as you are Saint again, it seems to be your purview as well. But remember to take joy."

"I have had two children," Ista said, standing "one my _greatest_ joy, and Chalion's also. One betrayed, and my greatest sorrow. Tell me, Cazaril, Clara. How do you like my odds?"

They said nothing as she left. 

 

<><><>

 

Illvin, damn him, was nowhere to be found.

Her room, which should have been welcome after so many months afield, was thin and unsatisfactory. Illvin was like a cat - incapable of minding his own business- so there was no telling where he was, and when he would be back. She contented herself with sending a page to find him, and sat down to wait. 

Ista did not quite remember laying back on her overstuffed divan to sleep, but she must have, because when she next opened her eyes, she was in Cazaril's office again.

But not quite. She was not road-stained, or road-weary. The light that poured in through the windows was from a different species of sun, pure white, rich as honey, soft as velvet. Her own garments were radiant, though her skin and hair remained mortal and dun. And the Cazaril that stood before her, rising with a respectful, yet mocking, nod, was a thick-set, white-haired, entirely different Cazaril. The true one never wore a grin half so roguish, so dastardly, and Cazaril's eyes, though deep, were not filled edge to edge with coruscating infinities. 

" _You._ " Ista said, standing from her chair, wishing for one moment to grab Him by His shirtfront and shake Him.

Sometimes Ista wondered how other people related to their chosen god. 

"Me," the Bastard said, placing a deprecating hand on His chest "Mm, I can see why my Sister favors this one so much. So...roomy," He gave Cazaril's hips an obscene waggle "the saint of all saints, this one."

"Lord Bastard-"

"Don't be jealous, sweet Ista," He said, eyes glittering "you are still My favorite."

"Bastard..."

"Yes, yes. To business. So impatient, you living things. Always in such a hurry."

"...How could this happen?" Ista said, sitting back down, and burying her face in her hands.

"Setting aside the gross practicalities, which I'm sure you grasp..." the Bastard shrugged "not every inconvenient thing is My doing, you know. I simply...take advantage of opportunities as they arise."

"And to what possible advantage is  _this_?" Ista snarled "I am too old, too weary. Too spent of love, too tired. I might die in childbed. My child might-" her throat closed, her eyes squeezed shut. She had promised herself many times that her time for tears was done. What was another child but a hostage to fate? She had failed Teidez, in not breaking the curse, in her impotent madness. 

"Indeed you might," the Bastard said "and your child may, as well. Many things are possible. If the worst occurs..." here He shrugged "can you doubt that you, and your child, would be welcome in My Halls? That you would somehow not be the treasure of My Heart? That you will both come to Me in the fullness of time is inevitable, sweet Ista. What matters is what happens in between." 

"I once prayed for oblivion, not even simple death. I know what awaits me, Lord, and I am grateful. But I am not ready to die, having found joy in this life."

"Your child might be many things. A tinker, a tailor, a soldier. A sailor. Perhaps even a divine of little old Me," the Bastard said "so many things, besides a small corpse. Do not mourn your dead prematurely." 

Ista raised her head.

"All things out of season are my domain," the Bastard said, reaching out to touch her face "blessings and curses alike. Which is which, I have found, comes mostly from one's point of view. And you have never been a coward."

"I..."

"Besides, I can hardly wait to meet him," the Bastard said.

"Lord Bastard...wait,  _him_?"

"Oops," the Bastard said, eyes bright with merriment "I suppose you would have found out eventually."

"If Iselle was not preparing to give birth to a son, a son of mine, legitimate or not, would be a contender to be Heir of Chalion," Ista said, heart frozen. She would throw herself from a cliff before she delivered another child into that nightmare.

"Maybe, maybe not. Thankfully, Iselle  _is_ giving birth to a son." The Bastard examined His fingernails critically "fortunate coincidence, that."

"...Damn you."

"I swear, has Cazaril ever  _heard_ of an emery board? You should go, sweet Ista. There's someone who very much wants to speak to you."

"I will, lord. But...I've wondered."

"Yes?" The Bastard said, looking up.

"Others have said that you speak to them in dreams, in omens. Why do you always come to me and speak plainly?"

The Bastard snorted "can you imagine anything more futile than trying to herd  _you_ with omens and nonsense? If I could enter the world of matter, I'd have taken a broom to you. Run along now, sweet Ista."

 

<><><>

 

Illvin shook her again, and she woke. 

"The Bastard?" He guessed, and she blinked.

"Why...yes. How...?"

"You have that look, that line between your eyes. Another argument?"

"No...yes...Illvin, there is something I must tell you."

His eyes grew worried "is it the illness, is it serious?"

"It is not an illness, and yes, deathly. I am pregnant."

She relished his suddenly blank expression. Should she be the only person to feel poleaxed today? To her sudden alarm, Illvin fell to his knees, and took her hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Why...proposing marriage, Ista. I think. I've never done it before, see. Umenrue came with a contract to sign."

"Illvin..." Ista shook the fog from her head "do not ask, because I cannot accept. Not," she said, stilling his protest with a finger to his lips "because of what anybody would say, or any nonsense such as that. Simply because there are doors that are open to Ista dy Chalion, Dowager Royina that may not be open to the honorable Sera dy Arbanos."

"I...suppose I can see the wisdom of that," Illvin said, hiding his disappointment not quite well enough. "But what of our child?"

"Our son," she said.

He opened his mouth, and closed it again. Several times.

"...Son?" He said faintly. 

"Yes, He disclosed as such to me." Ista said "and as for our son...half-brother to the Royina of Chalion, son of a saint and a hero of Chalion, what could you worry? I am a saint of the Bastard, and my lover is a bastard...why, what dishonor in bearing one? He shall be swaddled in purest white from the moment of his birth."

"Think of the laundry bills," Illvin said. 

"I'm glad you're happy, my love." Ista said, resting her forehead against his for a moment.

"Me too."

"I'm not happy, I'm  _furious_ ," Ista protested. But her lips, damn them, kept quirking up. 

"I'm sure," Illvin said, petting her cloud of hair, his face full of false commiseration. 

"It's going to be such a pain. I'll have to stay here, for over a  _year_ , and be cosseted and pampered and talked to by... _people_ ," Ista complained.

"I'll see if Lady dy Heultar is available for your confinement," Illvin suggested.

"That's not nearly as funny as you think it is," Ista warned "and stop making light of this. I'm going to get all fat..."

Illvin seized her hand and kissed it "such sweet flesh, and more of it? So much the better, I say."

"I'll be cross and cranky..."

Illvin's expression was studiedly neutral "ah, yes, that would be...a burden to bear." 

"Illvin."

"So different from the norm - auck! Stop that! Think of our poor child!" 

A knock at the door provided rescue from Ista's poking fingers. 

"Mother!" Iselle called from outside the door "Cazaril told me about the unexpected...the sudden...oh, for the love of...Mother!" Iselle sounded greatly aggrieved. And...thrilled. 

"I'm sorry, Royina, but she asked me straight out!" Cazaril, apparently dragged along for the ride, called in as well.

"I suppose we have to let her in," Illvin said.

"She  _is_ the Royina of Chalion," Ista said "it would be churlish not to."

Illvin stood, and made his way towards the door. She waited for the perfect moment.

"I rather thought we could name him Arhys," Ista said. He turned to her, with that marvelous stunned expression on his face, eyes wide, mouth working to no effect.

She was still laughing as she made her way past him, to open the door and let her daughter come in and make a fuss.

 

 


End file.
